


A Walk on the Dark Side

by chains_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Boys in Chains, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3674487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by NOIRCEUR</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Walk on the Dark Side

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).

Skinner watched his prey carefully, still not certain that  _he_  wasn't the one being led on a merry chase.

He was on holiday: an enforced one. The Bureau doctor had insisted that he take some stress-free time and had contacted Cassidy about it. Which had only added to the stress he was under. His ulcer, he had fumed, was his own business: to no avail. One month off, whether he liked it or not.

And he didn't like it. Hadn't liked it.

Until yesterday. When he'd caught sight of a certain ratbastard who was the main cause of his ulcer, of this "holiday".

In spite of the doctor's suggestions, of Cassidy's orders, he had stayed home, not gone anywhere. They might be able to force him out of his office, but they had no control over what he did once he closed his office door behind him.

He spent the first week pouting in his apartment, finally forcing himself to go out. To the gym, where he worked out his anger. On long walks which filled in the time. He wasn't much of a television watcher, nor a reader, unless you counted those endless reports he could never catch up on.

Which was another thing. Sure, he was supposed to relax during this month off, but who the hell would be reading all those damn reports that were accumulating in his absence? No one, that's who. And when he returned, he would have all those to read as well as the ones that appeared on his desk every day.

He was muttering to himself when he realized he had accidentally walked into a part of town where it really wasn't safe to be caught walking. Still, he was wearing his gym clothes, looking as ragged as anyone else in the area. And the fact that he had been muttering to himself angrily, well, that made him less conspicuous in this part of town.

He was mentally mapping his way out when he saw him. Krycek. Talking with someone on the street. Saw something pass between the man and Krycek, then they took off in opposite directions.

Skinner didn't know what made him follow Krycek. Maybe his training. Maybe the fact that just seeing the man made him feel the nanocytes, dormant as they were right then, cruising in his bloodstream.

All he knew was that as he followed him a wild plan began forming in his mind.

Krycek checked behind him now and then. Skinner wasn't sure he did this because he knew he was being followed or out of habit. He pulled all the training he hadn't used in years back to the forefront, made sure his weapon was easily accessible -- just in case -- and continued the hunt.

Because that's what it was, a hunt. A chasing down of the prey. With him as the predator.

Skinner felt a smile grow on his lips. One that sent a wino pulling back into the shadows of the corner where he was panhandling.

Krycek ducked into a flea-bag hotel and disappeared into its gullet. Skinner waited a minute then followed inside. The man at the front desk didn't even look up from his racing form. Skinner watched as the old- fashioned elevator noisily made its way to the top floor. Right, he thought. The roof. An escape route.

His first impulse was to go up there, find Krycek's room and beat the shit out of him. Fortunately his cooler self prevailed. He took the stairs to the next floor, just in case the clerk was paying attention, went to a door and stood in front of it for a minute, then went back out.

He found a spot where he could watch the front door while he did some serious thinking. Krycek, like all good rats, wouldn't spend much time in one place. For all he knew, he might already have plans to move on to another location. Maybe not.

Skinner pushed himself away from the doorway he was lounging in. Well, he had nothing better to do, so even if this plan went nowhere, it at least gave him something to fill in the time.

One good thing about the gym he used to work out in, it didn't cater to the Washington suits. Only a few people there knew what he did for a living. He needed some information and it would be easy enough to get it back at the gym.

He was opening the gym door when he realized that he felt better than he had in a long time.

 

* * *

Krycek was slinking among the shadows the next night, on his way back to the hotel when something hit him in the leg. He looked down, saw the small dart sticking out of his upper thigh. He pulled out his gun, tried hard to stay upright as he fought the tranquillizing drug. He almost made it to the door when his body crumbled to the dirty sidewalk.

Skinner checked out the area before calmly strolling up to his inert enemy. Krycek would have been very uneasy at the smile Skinner bestowed on him.

 

* * *

The building was vacant, falling apart. Squatters had lived in it for some time but even they had moved on. Skinner had chosen it for that very reason. No one around and, even if there were, no one who would come investigate.

He was thankful for those hours he had been putting in at the gym. Krycek was no lightweight, even if he were carrying him over his shoulder. And the building of his choice was a good half mile from the hotel.

He dropped his burden on the floor, stretched, groaning loudly. Yes, this was as perfect a place for what he had planned as he could have found, given the time frame he was working in.

He went to rummage in some debris and pulled out the gym bag he had stashed earlier that day. He pulled out the thermos of coffee and poured himself a cup. The heat of the drink, plus the fact that it was liberally laced with brandy, helped refresh him. A quick glance at his watch told him he had about an hour left to set the scene for this little drama before the drug wore off.

Vengeance on Krycek was a delicate matter.

The man was passing them information that they needed in order to take down the Consortium. Not that much, but enough that he couldn't kill the man the way he wanted. Krycek was probably -- hell, not probably, definitely -- playing both sides. One day they might be able to take him out of the game, but right now he was still a player.

No, his revenge for the nanocytes that were controlling his life, the attacks on his self-respect, even his ulcer had to be less permanent than death.

He finished his coffee, recapped the thermos and set to work.

 

* * *

Krycek revived slowly. The drug still cruising through his bloodstream made it difficult for him to figure out immediately what was going on.

He understood fairly quickly that he was naked by the cold air he felt all over his body. He was standing, arms tied above his head. The prosthesis was still strapped on and he could feel something like tape where his stump met the plastic of the fake arm. Someone was making extra certain that the fake was going to stay on.

He had to figure all that out because his eyes were bandaged. He could feel the pads on his eyelids, the binding that went over the pads and around his head.

Quickly he went through the rolodex in his head of whom he had pissed off recently. Whichever name he came up with, he didn't think he was going to like what was coming. It surprised him that he wasn't gagged, but concluded that wherever he was, his screaming wasn't going to attract attention. He wondered why the hell he wasn't dead. And if Cancerman had finally clued in to the fact that his loyalty was no longer the exclusive property of the Consortium.

From behind him, to the left, he heard someone move, walk slowly to stand behind him.

"What the hell is going on?" Krycek snapped.

The body behind him said nothing. The steps slowly circled the post where he was hanging.

"Oh, I get it. A guessing game. I'm supposed to guess who you are. If I do, what's the prize? A quick death?" Krycek was proud that his voice didn't betray his fear. He sounded as arrogant as ever.

"So are we alone, or is there an audience I'm playing to? Hey! If there's a camera, make sure to get my good side."

The steps went off behind him to where they had originated. And stopped.

Krycek rested his forehead against the post. The drugs were still pulling at him. He found himself dozing off.

So that he didn't hear the footsteps come quietly behind and to the left of him. He only felt the sting across his back. He yelped, more in surprise at being roused than at the pain. It wasn't yet pain, but he realized that it would soon be. He braced himself and waited for the next shot.

There was no rhyme or reason to the whipping. Sometimes the man concentrated on his ass, other times any which where over his body. The only thing he could do was swallow the screams.

Which he did for far longer than Skinner thought he possibly could. He grinned when, finally, Krycek gave in to the pain and screamed.

He was enjoying this. He was using a rider's crop that he had purchased in a pawn shop that morning. He'd never done anything like this in his life, had never understood the attraction of it.

Now he did.

The long body at his mercy. The lines of pink and red that appeared on it now that he was getting the hang of the crop and what it could do.

It was like painting on a canvas except that Krycek's body was the canvas and the crop was his paintbrush.

He found himself smiling as he figured out where to place his next blow, his next line of paint. Would it darken the hue already there, or fill in a corner he had so far missed?

And the screams! So enjoyable!

Krycek's voice pitching upwards with curses, inarticulate words, cries. All releasing a pressure Skinner had had building within him for years, since the X-Files and Cancerman had appeared in his office.

And so like music to his ears! All the curses, silent cries he had had to sublimate, now echoing in the room. He felt quite liberated.

Yes, he thought, yell, you ratbastard! For all the things you've done to us! For Scully. Her abduction. Her cancer. The death of her sister. For Mulder. His father. For what the Consortium has driven him to. For your betrayal of the Bureau. For the nanocytes that control my life. For killing me. For bringing me back.

With each item on his list he brought the crop down harder and harder until he realized that the paint dripping on his canvas was blood. That Krycek's struggles were sluggish. That he sagged in his bonds.

Then Skinner pulled back. He found he was gasping for breath, his body sweat-covered with the effort of his vengeance.

He stepped back even further, waiting for the horror of what he had done to hit him.

It didn't.

Instead he felt pleasure. Touched himself and was pleasantly surprised to find that he had an erection. The smile became a grin.

He tucked the crop under his arm, walked back to his gym bag and rummaged around until he found his shower stuff. He pulled out his shaving kit and from that the condom he always kept there. Just in case. Not that he had much opportunity to use it, but you never knew when one would come in handy. Like a Boy Scout, Skinner believed in being prepared.

He tucked the foil package into the fob pocket of his jeans and went to check on the condition of his canvas.

Krycek was standing better, front of body leaning against the post. His breathing seemed less laboured. He was crying softly, as if unaware he was doing so.

Skinner touched him for the first time since the start of the whipping. He stroked the hair now darker with sweat. Gently, he pushed back so that Krycek's face was revealed. Even the pads covering his eyes were soaked.

"Fucking bastard," whispered Krycek, voice hoarse from screaming. His throat hurt almost as much as his back. The man touching him yanked back on his hair, hard. The crop stroked from under his chin along his throat to the top of his chest. Krycek tried to control his trembling. Shit! Was the fucker going to turn him around and do the front?

Skinner released Krycek and watched him work at controlling his body, at ignoring the pain. No, he thought, don't think I want you to do that, boy.

He went to stand just behind the man, placed his hands carefully on the man's updrawn arms and slowly, with steady pressure, he began caressing the welted body. Like a lover, his hands explored every inch of the reddened skin, smoothing, stroking, hardly arousing as Krycek moans grew louder as his gestures hardened.

Krycek's ass was beet red, with thin streaks of blood. Skinner had spent lots of time on that part of Krycek's anatomy, returning to it time and again. By the time his hands grabbed the trembling muscles, he was smiling again. He couldn't resist: he brought his hand up and swung down on the beaten flesh with all the anger he could still muster. The sound of his open palm on flesh filled the room, drowned out only by the renewed screams of his captive.

God! What a turn-on!

When his right hand wearied, he moved to the other side and used his left. He stopped when he realized that Krycek was beginning to keen, that his hands hurt, that his erection was demanding attention.

Skinner pulled away, blew on his hand. The last time he'd felt this way was back in Nam, stoned out of his mind.

He unbuttoned his jeans, pulled down the zipper. Still blowing on his smarting left hand, he used his right to pull his hardened cock out of his underwear, already wet with pre-com.

Eyes concentrating on his victim, he stroked himself a few times and reached into his pocket for the foil pack. He tore it open with his teeth, took it in hand and rolled it over his erection.

Krycek felt him through his pain, standing behind him. Braced himself for another whipping, for some other torment.

Skinner placed his hands on Krycek's ass, thumbs pulling his crack apart, revealing the puckered asshole. The condom was pre-lubed and that was all the preparation Krycek was going to get.

Krycek's scream echoed into the upper reaches of the building.

Skinner cocked an eyebrow at hearing it. Who knew the ratbastard had that much energy left in him. It only made him harder. He used his hips to push Krycek against the post and then preceded to try and pump him into it.

He came, grunting his orgasm, the only sound he himself had made in all this. Krycek didn't hear it over his sobs.

Skinner was careful pulling out of the man, removed the condom and tied it off. He remembered to toss it into a towel in his gym bag: wouldn't do to leave any evidence behind.

He took the time to drink another cup of laced coffee. Thought he had never tasted anything so good in his life. Probably would never taste anything this good again.

Krycek's sobs diminished to hiccups. His entire body felt it was on fire. It would be only sheer luck if the bastard hadn't torn him up inside. Thank God it hadn't taken him long to come. He tried to get the sounds he was making under control. Concentrated on finding the wherewithal within him to endure whatever the fucker had planned next. Shit! When were those supposed pain-deadening endorphins going to kick in?

Skinner picked up Krycek's shorts, jeans, got them on his unresponsive body. Got his socks and boots on. He released the rope holding him up, unbound his hands. Got the t-shirt, sweater and leather jacket on him.

Apart from his uncontrolled tremors, Krycek was no problem as Skinner hoisted him up onto a shoulder, grabbed his gym bag with his free hand. He was barely conscious as they left the dilapidated building.

Skinner felt totally revived, like it was nothing more than a mid-night stroll as he carried Krycek back to near his hotel. At the unlit corner of the building itself, he dropped his load onto the sidewalk, removed the blindfold, stashed it into his jacket pocket.

From a darkened entrance-way, he watched, waiting until Krycek showed signs of life. Painfully got to his hands and knees, used the bricks of the hotel to pull himself to his feet. After he had safely staggered into the hotel, Skinner went home.

 

* * *

He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for... something to hit him. Guilt? Remorse? Disgust?

His stomach, which usually hurt under the merest qualm of conscience, was pain free. It felt better than it had in years.  _He_  felt better than he had in years.

He reviewed his evening's work, worrying at it like a kid picking at a scab. At least he should feel guilty for not feeling guilty. Instead, as he imagined the details, reviewed his actions, all he felt was his cock hardening. Which only got harder the further he progressed through his memories of the whipping, the caresses, the rape.

He stroked himself into orgasm, enjoying the sensation of the hot come against his cooler skin. He dipped his finger in it, brought it up to his mouth and smiled as he licked at it.

Maybe, he thought, as he cleaned himself off, maybe next time he was beginning to feel the stress of his job, of trying to keep the X-Files going, of having to deal with Cancerman and his orders, maybe he would go hunting again. After all, Krycek was known to recover quickly.

Skinner pulled up the covers, rolled to his side. His last thought before falling deeply asleep was that maybe he had found the perfect treatment for an ulcer.

 

* * *

**Part 2**

Skinner's ulcer made itself felt soon after he had returned to work from his month-long "vacation".

The therapeutic effects of his session with Krycek hadn't lasted beyond his first week back to a desk covered with reports, internal messages that needed immediate responses two weeks previously. Not to mention the trouble Mulder was causing again. All that man needed to do was breathe near a military installation and he was getting phone calls in the middle of the night from some irate liaison officer.

He was making his way through the Bureau garage late one Friday night when the pain hit.

Not the ulcer, though that had been certainly making itself felt, but the nanocytes.

He had to use the car itself to prop himself up. Tried to make it to the door when a jump in the pain level dropped him to the ground, made him black out.

Krycek carefully checked the surroundings before he came out of the shadows, walked over to the man lying on the cement by his car. A quick frisk of the body and Krycek was opening the car door with Skinner's keys.

No one saw Skinner's car leave the garage with a different driver. The broken camera in that sector did not record Skinner's being manhandled into the back seat of his own car.

  
Skinner regained consciousness and found himself in a familiar scenario. Except that the last time, he had been the organizer of that little drama: now, he was the central character.

The nanocytes meant Krycek. He'd clued in to that when he'd realized that his hands were turning blue from expanding veins.

That he was blindfolded, naked, arms above head, wrists bond to a beam, ankles apart to some restraint on the floor brought him quickly to the realization that Krycek had figured out who his tormentor had been. A deep breath and the sort of familiar smell of musty unused space made him wonder if Krycek had found the location of his torment. It would be wonderfully ironic for him to use the same location to get his own back.

He didn't know how long he'd been hanging: must have been some time since his shoulders were beginning to burn from the strain.

And it was Friday -- or, at least, had been when he'd left the Bureau. No one was really expecting to see him before Monday morning. True, he usually spent part of the weekend at his desk, but he doubted anyone would really notice if he didn't.

Well, none of this was helping. He pushed all thoughts from his mind, concentrated on discovering whether he was alone in the building, the possibility of someone else being around. If Krycek were replaying his version of events, he should be sitting on some old crate watching him revive while drinking coffee laced with brandy.

The sound, when it came, did not come from behind him. Came from beyond the room. Footsteps. Loud enough for him to be aware that whoever it was wanted to be heard.

The footsteps entered the room with the same measured pace and made their way around him. Twice. Before going to the spot where he had waited for Krycek to realize just what shit he was in.

His only consolation right now was that, as he could not afford to kill Krycek, neither could Krycek afford to kill him.

Some consolation!

Well, the best he could do was endure, and without begging. For all his screaming, sobs, cursing, that had been one thing Krycek hadn't done: beg. He could do no less. His pride insisted on it.

He braced himself against the floor, tried to relieve some of the tension in his shoulders and decided that if Krycek wanted to play a waiting game, he could play it too. It was a warm night and his being naked wasn't much of a burden.

He hadn't been sleeping well lately but still, he managed to surprise himself by yawning. That he did so didn't seem to please Krycek. Skinner found himself suddenly slapped hard by an open palm. Before he had time to react, he was backhanded. He knew he would have bruises where real and fake hand had hit him.

Skinner braced himself for more only to have the footsteps walk away from him. When he wanted to, Krycek walked to be heard. Irritation overrode Skinner's sense of helplessness: when the hell was Krycek going to get on with it?

The hand that took him by surprise was ungloved. Warm fingertips sketched the outline of his face.

He clamped his lips together. Braced himself for a slap, a punch, something other than the gentle caress that he couldn't escape.

He tried to hide his face in his upraised arm but the hand firmly gripped his chin, brought his face back to the front. The tightness of the grip carried its own message: that he was not to move his head again.

The hand became a finger that stroked his cheeks, his chin, the tip caressing his lips. He opened his mouth and bit down hard on the finger, got a back handed slap with the prosthetic hand, hard, against his jaw. The next time the finger played with his lips, he only pulled his lips into his mouth. He thought he sensed a silent laugh from Krycek at that.

The hand moved down his throat, gently, though the grip was threatening. It wouldn't take much effort on the part of that hand to choke the breath out of him. Skinner automatically tried to pull up, but the hand merely continued its way, as if not noticing.

It played along his collarbone, gently outlined the taut muscles of his underarms. Fingertips combed through the patches of hair there. A cool stream of breath ruffled first one then the other. Though he didn't make any sound, it tickled.

The hand stroked across his chest, avoiding his nipples, returning to those with fingertips circling, never touching. Back and forth between the right then the left, threatening touch but never actually carrying through.

Incredibly, Skinner could feel himself hardening. Shit! He hadn't considered that. He forced himself to concentrate on the pile of work waiting for him on his desk. Almost sighed when he felt himself deflate.

Krycek must have noticed but didn't act on it. His hand skimmed along Skinner's diaphragm, lightly teasing the muscles until they trembled under his touch. Until his cock, ignoring all images of reports stacked on desk, responded to the fingertips approaching it.

Skinner tried hard to pull away. Unfortunately, the position in which he was restrained didn't allow him much leeway to pull back. Still, Krycek didn't pull him forward, merely crouched until his mouth was at cock level. A stream of air did anything but cool him down.

The hand avoided the cock that was now almost fully erect, the balls hanging heavy in their sac for the inside of Skinner's thighs. Once more he tried to pull back. He raised himself on his toes, moved his hips to one side. The hand left his legs only to return to his cock which was now weeping for attention.

The hand smoothly caressed, gripped until all he could do was accept that he was eventually going to come in Krycek's hand.

But the hand left him.

Skinner caught his breath, realized the footsteps had made their way to behind him again and breathed a sigh of relief. He set about cooling down his shaft.

His cock was almost back where it belonged when the steps came behind him. He braced himself for something like the feel of a crop, but instead it was only that hand again. That infuriating hand that was kneading the strain out of his shoulders, that smoothly glided down his stretched muscles to the small of his back where the tension was painfully building. Again the hand only worked out the stress, dropped lower to his buttocks. The hand kneaded, loosening up muscles knotted by the position he was in.

So the finger making its way into his ass took him totally by surprise. Still, it was lubed and its penetration was done little by little, allowing him to become use to its presence before it invaded him further, ignoring his attempts to wriggle away from it. When he had time to become use to that one, another joined the first. This time, he couldn't prevent the gasp of pleasure when his tormentor found his prostate. For a moment, it cancelled all the pain, the tension in his muscles and he nearly sagged.

His cock grew very appreciative once more.

The fingers slowly found a rhythm that pleased it, in spite of his rationalizations. He couldn't prevent the slight sound he managed to catch when those fingers left his body. He had more success when that hand went to play with his balls. At first. But his legs were far enough apart that the hand could also slip under to tease the base of his now rampant cock, return to roll sensitive testicles until he could feel them rise and...

Nothing.

Once again the hand left his body, this time painfully on the edge of orgasm, to let him hang there, needing release and not providing the last touches that would bring it.

He was allowed more time to cool down. From behind him he could hear the small sounds that he identified as a thermos cap being unscrewed, the sound of liquid being poured. He had a overwhelming urge to ask Krycek for a share of whatever it was he was drinking.

The next time the hand touched him, Skinner thought he was ready for the game: arousal without satisfaction and then a cooling off period. Krycek didn't disappoint him. He was driven to rise on the tip of his feet, trying hard to convince that taunting hand to bring him to completion. He gritted his teeth against the moans that tried to escape his throat, nearer to begging than either of the previous times.

And again, Krycek pulled away.

Though now, Skinner wasn't allowed the usual recovery time. He had barely gotten his breathing under control when the hand came back. This time the air was filled with whatever curses Skinner could drum up, including the few Vietnamese ones he had picked up in Nam and one or two he remembered from his Russian grandfather.

Krycek actually laughed aloud at those.

And with that laughter, Skinner felt both hands on his genitals, a series of cold metal rings slip onto his cock, and he knew the game had changed.

Gloved fingers played with his nipples until they were hard nubs, standing out, easy prey for the clamps that clipped onto them. Then the fingers played with his body until once more he wanted to scream his need for orgasm. And again, they left him, cock throbbing in its confinement, nipples aching in their adornment, body pulsating in rhythm to his heartbeat.

The lubed finger that came to tease his perineum felt like a burning ember against his highly sensitized skin. It seared its way to his asshole, teasing the entry into wanting to swallow it.

At this stage Skinner knew he was going to be fucked. Wanted it over and done with. He pushed back into that finger, offering it welcome. What he got was a lubed anal plug rammed into him, large enough to burn on entry, long enough to rub against his prostate. His cry turned into a groan of pleasure as the plug was pulled out slightly, pushed back in to again rub that sensitive inner organ.

He was sure this time that, no matter what, he would orgasm.

He didn't.

Krycek once more left him hanging there, letting him regain some control over his body.

Skinner hung in his bonds, body slicked with sweat now drying in the warm summer night air. He had trouble locking his knees so that his legs would support his body, now trembling from unrelieved sexual tension.

He'd heard of "dying to be laid", but the thought crossed his mind that he might be the first to actually die of the maladie.

Periodically, the hands returned to his body, to tease, to taunt, to sensitize his skin to the point that a breath caressing it edged on pain.

And every time -- quicker and quicker with each return -- he came close to climaxing, those hands left him to whimper, to moan, to sob his need.

By now, when he had the mind to think, he was sure from the pulsating agony that his cock must be purple with blood. If Krycek so much as fanned the air around it, he screamed. That, in turn, was rewarded with a twist of the plug, sending his prostate into paroxysms of pain/pleasure. If a finger so much as hovered over his nipples, the pain in his cock moved rapidly northward. The skim of a finger was fire against his skin.

And every time, Krycek merely pulled back, gave him a little time to recover before beginning his assault all over again.

And not just the places that had been toyed with were overly sensitized. The muscles of his thighs twitched, the small of his back was a bundle of flaming nerves, the nape of his neck echoed each throb of his heart.

Curses, cries, screams, sobs had roughened his voice to the point that his throat ached as much as any part of his body.

And still Krycek wouldn't let him come.

He approached Skinner who was barely aware any more of his presence apart from his hands. He hoped that Skinner's body hurt as much as his had. He smiled nastily at the sound that broke through Skinner's mouth as he realized that Krycek was once more about to touch him.

"Please," the voice rasped, "please..."

What he had been waiting for!

Skinner begging.

As  _he_  hadn't.

He let his finger tips gently skim the over-sensitized body, enjoying the pleas interspersed between the sobs that Skinner could no longer control. He moved around the man until he was behind him. His own cock had been given satisfaction whenever it had demanded it throughout this night, but he had no trouble getting it to pay attention one more time.

He rolled a condom over himself, lubed it generously. The lube he had put on the anal plug would be long gone: Skinner hadn't torn him up too badly, he wanted to return the favour.

This time, when he played with the plug, he pulled it out all the way. Skinner barely noticed. He did notice that what replaced it was longer, that its entry battered already sore tissues.

Krycek wrapped his fake arm around Skinner to hold him still while he pumped himself against his enemy. His hand went up to release first one clamp and then the other. The sensation of release followed immediately by blood re-circulating nearly caused Skinner to pass out. Krycek had to prop him up.

Skinner's cries only encouraged him to his orgasm. God! That felt so good!

Just payment for every one of the stripes, the welts, the cuts he had borne on his body during the days it had taken him to recover from Skinner's beating.

He removed the condom, tossed it into the plastic bag he'd been using for garbage.

With a malicious grin, he went to stand in front of the man who had tormented him. Grabbed his swollen cock with his fake hand, dribbled lube over it and, with difficulty, enjoying every one of Skinner's cries, manoeuvred the cock ring off.

Skinner screamed with the pain, sagged, moaning, into his bonds.

Krycek gathered Skinner's clothes, dropped them on the floor next to the man. With precise movements, not one wasted gesture, he released him from his bonds, watching as the man's body dropped to the floor. The over-heated body contorted against the coolness of the cement.

Krycek gathered the last of his things, stepped over the now unaware Skinner and made his way to the hallway of the derelict building. There he waited until he was certain Skinner was reviving -- he began controlling the involuntarily sounds he was making -- and left the building.

Skinner's car was parked where he had left it, guarded by several members of a local gang. They watched him warily, nervously, having been an unseeing audience to whatever had happened inside the building.

He reached in for his wallet, making the teenage thugs jump back, ready for any action. He smiled, his lupine smile.

"Another two hundred to see that the man gets in his car and drives off okay. It may," his smile grew, giving the hardened teens shivers, "take a while. I wouldn't like to hear that the car wasn't in tip-top shape, or that he was robbed when he tried to leave. Is that understood?"

The jerky nods assured him that Skinner would be leaving the area safely. Not in the same shape he'd been in when he'd arrived, but hey! Life didn't come with guarantees.

 

* * *

**Part 3**

Skinner could not believe this was happening to him again. Fuck! Did Maintenance never double-check its work?

The gun in the small of his back directed him to his car where the passenger seat was already filled. The gun that greeted him allowed the one behind him to settle in the back seat. He sat there staring out the windshield, both his hands -- without having to be told -- on the steering wheel. One gun rested on the shoulder of his car seat, the other held steady, both pointed at his head.

The passengers were well dressed, looking very much like any FBI agent, even down to the blackened sunglasses.

"Very wise, Assistant Director Skinner. Now our orders are to deliver you safe and sound to a certain address. Please, don't force us to do otherwise. Just follow my directions and all will be well."

As if he had a choice.

He went to start the car but was stopped by the gun behind him. He returned his hand to the steering wheel and waited while the man next to him turned the key in the ignition.

He was certain they could have reached their destination far faster had it not been for the roundabout route he followed, as instructed. An hour later, they pulled up to the side of what looked to be an empty strip mall of four or five stores, battered- looking, old and useless beyond its time.

Carefully the three men got out of the car and with Skinner in the front, one of the guns behind him, the other to his side, they made their way to one of the doors. The man behind him took out a cell phone, hit a button. "We're here."

There was the sound of footsteps, a small movement of the ragged cloth that covered the square window in the door, the click of a lock turning, and the door pushed open from the inside. Skinner entered, barely glancing at yet another suited man with a gun.

The room was large, had probably held ten or so desks. The electrical plugs, the telephone jacks were still there on the floor. Those, the badly stained, threadbare carpet and a telephone sitting on the floor were the only things in the derelict room. Whatever windows there were were covered with heavy black paper. Even with the lights on, no one from the outside would notice.

There were two doors leading out; one probably to a bathroom, the other maybe to another office.

Skinner stood very still in the middle of the room. There was the smell of death in the air. What a fucking place to die, he thought.

The three men watched him with no expression on their faces. He was the only one startled when the phone sitting on the floor rang.

One of the men went over to it, hit a button. "As you ordered, sir."

Skinner easily recognized the voice coming out of the speaker.

"Well, Mr. Skinner. It would seem that for the moment your side has won."

Skinner heard the inhalation of Spender's ubiquitous cigarette. He braced himself: the next few minutes were probably going to be his last.

"And not without help," Spender continued. "Which leaves me in a difficult position."

"Really?" Skinner made his voice as disinterested as possible. Spender was the only one to have slipped through their fingers. Well, the only remaining living member of the group of men who met in New York. There was also their assassin missing.

"Yes. Really. Imagine the irony of being betrayed by someone trained to betray others. You and Mulder would never have been able to succeed the way you have without the help of Alex Krycek."

There was the sound of another inhalation, another exhalation.

"I must admit that I did expect something from him. Like the cat of the infamous song, he kept on coming back. The man seems unkillable. Yet he managed not only to betray me but you as well, Mr. Skinner. You still haven't found the documentation on the nanocytes, have you? Or the present location of the palm pilot? You may not believe me, but neither have we."

Spender gave a little chuckle.

"That's our Alex. Always with an eye to his main advantage. However, there does come a time when advantages do run out."

Two of the three men moved. They went past Skinner to one of the two doors, opened it and disappeared into the room beyond. In a matter of seconds they were back, dragging a man between them.

A one-armed man.

Naked.

Bloodied and battered.

A man whose wrist, whose stump were tied with ropes that ended in the hands of each of the suited men.

Krycek was dropped to the ground in front of Skinner. His back was welted, cut from what Skinner now recognized as a whip. One of the men pulled his head back by the hair and swollen, blackened eyes, a broken nose, split mouth tried to pull out of that grip.

The two men stepped sideways until the ropes were taut, holding Krycek up on his knees.

Skinner could see where the knives had cut the tendons in his thighs. He hadn't been able to protect himself from whatever sexual torture they had inflected on him.

Still, Krycek was Krycek. It took a moment or two, but he stopped his head from wavering, held it belligerently up.

"You see before you, Mr. Skinner, a man who has betrayed us both. We did try to get certain information out of him, but Alex has always been stubbornly unreasonable. There are some secrets that would be better dead than allowed the possibility of further revelation. As there are secrets that would be better left undiscovered. Do you not agree, Mr. Skinner?"

"Get to the point." Skinner ignored Krycek for the third man who was now smiling. He didn't like that smile.

"Personally, I am too far away to see that the traitor gets his just dessert. Much as I would love to do so myself, I felt it far more important to see to my own security measures than to provide some muchly deserved justice. That's where you come in, Mr. Skinner."

As Skinner watched, the third man pulled a Glock out of his pocket.

"I feel that you will make an excellent proxy in my place."

"Am I to understand that you want me to execute Krycek?"

Spender seemed to find the question amusing. "Yes, Mr. Skinner, you understand correctly."

"After which," said Skinner, in the same unemotional tone, "these three... people... will execute me."

"No, no. Mr. Skinner. I am disappointed in you. If I had wanted you dead, you would be. No, I just want the pleasure of hearing Alex Krycek die. At your hand. Just punishment for his betrayal of us, of  _me_  and the Consortium. Just punishment for what he did to you last summer, as well as the nanocytes."

Skinner had started at Spender's mention of last summer. He ignored that and ploughed on. "Am I supposed to trust you?"

He heard Spender light up another cigarette. "Interesting dilemma, isn't it? A chance to eliminate someone who has made your life a misery at the possible cost of your life. No, I'm teasing. I can assure you, Skinner," Spender's voice had hardened, "when you die it will be at my hand, not one of my men's.

"The decision is yours. The building you are in is slated for destruction. It will be days, probably weeks before anyone finds the body. And no one will associate you with the execution style slaying of a wanted felon. Think about it, Skinner. Vengeance at no cost."

"Except the cost that you will apply to it."

"Ah, yes. Well, you can always hope that something will happen to me, something that will make this cost- free.

"Decision time. Mr. Skinner?"

The third man offered Skinner the Glock like a duellist offering a sword, grip first, over the back of his arm.

Skinner looked at the weapon, turned and looked at Krycek. He reached for the gun. Once in his hand, he examined it, looking for potential weaknesses. He released the clip, found it fully loaded. He removed all the bullets, verifying that each was in fact a true bullet. He refilled the clip, rearmed the Glock.

The third man grinned. "Your Mr. Skinner is not a trusting man," he said for Spender's benefit.

"My Mr. Skinner has reason not to be. Is he satisfied?"

"Yes." And the third man took up a position behind Skinner.

Skinner said nothing. He weighed the weapon in his hand, held it in a comfortable grip. He took the proper shooting stance, feet apart, arms straight out, holding the gun in one hand, his wrist with the other.

Carefully he took aim.

Krycek looked him straight in the face, steadied his head.

Skinner lowered his gun.

"What?" The third man brought his weapon up.

"What's going on?" Spender demanded from the phone.

Skinner carefully made his way around one of the men holding Krycek, went around to behind Krycek.

"Your Mr. Skinner doesn't like his victims to watch him kill them," the man sneered.

"An execution," said Skinner, " should be done properly."

He took aim again, took a couple of steps back.

The third man grunted.

"This," said Skinner, "is a new suit. I prefer not having it splattered by gore the first time I wear it."

Two shots rang out before the third man had time to fire his weapon. A fourth shot rang out.

"What the hell is going on!" Spender screamed from the phone. A quick tug and that too fell silent.

Skinner quickly went to the man who lay face down on the floor, pulled the ropes to him and managed to get him over his shoulder. He dropped Krycek onto the back seat of his car and sped out of the strip mall.

Less than a minute had passed since the death of three men and a phone.

 

* * *

Joe Fischer wasn't happy to be called away from his football game. More so at the sight of the injured man his poker buddy had brought him.

"Jesus! Shit, Walter!"

"Yeah, I know. But I need him alive. And I need him to live. And this is the only place where he has a chance at both."

"Well, I can fix him up to the best of my ability. Keep him here for a few days, until I'm sure he's going to live. As for keeping him alive, that's going to be your problem. I've got enough troubles of my own at the clinic, I really don't need to import any."

"All right. I'll find him a safe house. Can you give me a couple of days?"

 

* * *

Alex Krycek finished spooning up the last of his soup. After four weeks, he was getting tired of the stuff. Fischer had promise him he could go onto soft foods as soon as his jaw had healed enough to be unwired. Skinner had become quite creative with a blender. Tonight's supper had started life off as some sort of chicken noddle thing. It had been pureed to the point that it was nothing more than a grey-looking sludge.

He ignored the television, looked out the condo bedroom window. Seventeen floors up, there wasn't much to see other than the occasional bird passing by.

Skinner took the empty bowl away and placed another on Krycek's lap. Krycek sighed: his reward for downing the soup. Chocolate ice cream. Nuked to soften it but still cool enough to qualify as ice cream.

Krycek looked from the dessert to the man who had saved his life, cared for him since Fischer had booted him out of his clinic. "Thanks." It was hard to form words with a wired mouth. His speech was thick and muttered: yet, after all this practice, Skinner had no trouble understanding him.

Skinner tucked the linen napkin a bit more snugly around Krycek's neck. He realized it was important for Krycek to feed himself, but it was an awkward, sloppy job with a cast on his one arm.

He made himself comfortable in the armchair that he had carried up from the living room. Stretched his legs out, ate his own bowl of ice cream all the while watching the football game with one eye, Krycek with the other.

Fischer was quite pleased with the way his patient was healing. Of course, he only saw him in the daytime. He wasn't around at night when the memories of what had been done to him had Krycek screaming, quite loudly in spite of the wired jaw.

Still, he was getting better. Fischer wanted him to start on physio-therapy next week. With luck, Krycek would be able to walk without too much trouble. He certainly had had more than enough of staying in bed.

They'd cleared the air about the nanocytes as soon as Krycek could talk. The documentation and the palm pilot had been found just where he said they would be, in the library at FBI headquarters, in a hollowed out "Meditations of Saint Jerome" that had been there since 1954, never stamped out.

Scully had taken the documentation for study. Skinner had destroyed the palm pilot.

Whatever else Krycek had to tell them could wait until he could talk clearly.

They had been able to track down Spender. Krycek hadn't been his only betrayer. He had died in a hail of bullets, at a cottage in some small tourist town in Quebec. Krycek had expressed surprise that Spender would have used the same hiding place twice. Extensive DNA testing among many others had assured them all that it was indeed Spender, and not a clone.

Later, Skinner helped Krycek get ready for bed. Since Spender's death the week before, he really could have been moved to another location, but Skinner never brought the matter up.

There was one subject that had been nagging at Krycek. He waited until Skinner had helped him lie down, turned off the light before he broached it.

"Skinner."

"Yeah?"

"Why did you save my life?"

"Why not?"

"You hate me. You beat the shit out of me."

Skinner said nothing, just crossed his arms and slouched against the bedroom door. He stared at the man looking at him from his bed. Apart from the wired mouth, the bump on the bridge of his nose, Krycek's face looked pretty much back to normal.

He took a deep breath, released it. Wondered if Krycek would understand even if it made no sense.

"That was between the two of us. He had no right to have you hurt that way." He shrugged. "That's the best I can do. Understand?"

Krycek's mouth relaxed, He attempted a smile. "So, only you can beat me up. Is that what you're saying?"

Skinner thought about it. He nodded. "That about sums it up, yeah."

"And you're going to do it again."

"Probably," agreed Skinner.

Krycek didn't seem too upset at the prospect. "Yeah, you look the type to beat up on cripples."

"It'll be good physio-therapy," said Skinner. Krycek merely raised his eyebrows in question. "Down at the gym. Where I box. It'll help you get yourself back together."

"Taking a chance, aren't you?" This time it was Skinner's eyebrows that questioned. "That I won't be able to beat you up."

Skinner laughed. "Yeah, I guess I am." He straightened, went to close the door.

Krycek's mouth grimaced with a grin. "Good night, Walter."

"Pleasant dreams. Alex."

**Author's Note:**

> January, 2000


End file.
